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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26732986">Toading</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrdinaryRealities/pseuds/OrdinaryRealities'>OrdinaryRealities</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophloph/pseuds/sophloph'>sophloph</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Knitting, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Retirement, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:49:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,148</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26732986</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrdinaryRealities/pseuds/OrdinaryRealities, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophloph/pseuds/sophloph</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“The knitting group,” Crowley repeated, more to himself this time. Aziraphale could tell that he’d come around to the idea soon enough. It was something in the set of his shoulders, and, more accurately, a history of being easily swayed. He only needed a little nudging in the right direction. Besides, back to the point—</p>
<p>“I’m pleased that we’re spending so much time together now. That we’re moving in together! It’s… momentous. But… well, clearly, I’m not quite certain how to—”</p>
<p>“Yeah, ” Crowley said, before he could get lost in his words, “how to admit to it without getting all panicky. Got it.” He seemed to study Aziraphale for a moment, then said, “It’s weird for me, too.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>100</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>121</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>GO-Events POV Pairs Works</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Limes? I don’t think we need limes,” Aziraphale said, watching Crowley squeeze one for ripeness. He wasn’t entirely certain that the squeezing trick applied to limes, either, but he couldn’t really say.</p>
<p>“Thought you wanted to do fancy drinks.” Crowley now had two that he seemed to be comparing. “Cocktails. Citrus on the rim.”</p>
<p>Aziraphale hummed his disapproval. “Maybe a nice lemon.”</p>
<p>Their trolley was filling up quickly, and they were still at the front of the shop. Of course, most of it was perfectly rational: potatoes and carrots for the stew he was planning, courgettes for a bread, oranges that Crowley had promised to squeeze fresh into juice. It was Crowley’s technique that was more questionable. Aziraphale still wasn’t convinced that they needed a Slap Chop™, despite the several arguments Crowley had posed in its favour. </p>
<p>At the deli counter, Aziraphale took his time sampling different cheeses and weighing their merits with the lovely woman slicing them (Megan, who had moved here to look after her mother) while Crowley did a bit of lurking. His lurking looked an awful lot like fond looking-on, Aziraphale thought, but it wouldn’t do to say so.</p>
<p>The bakery section presented its own set of challenges. There were all manner of confections on display. Cakes and their miniatures sat front and centre, proudly decorated for a few odd occasions. There were rows of pastry boxes on a table to the side, each tied neatly with a ribbon. Aziraphale was caught up in the fraught decision between the blueberry and raspberry muffins when Crowley reached around him to set the raspberry ones in the trolley. He’d nearly lost track of him in the excitement.</p>
<p>“We can come back here again, y’know, angel,” he said, with the teasing sort of smile that Aziraphale found infinitely reassuring. “Matter of fact, we can come back every day, if you like. If those aren’t any good, we’ll get the others next time.”</p>
<p>“I am getting a bit carried away, aren’t I? The cupboards looked awfully bare, and I think… well, I do like to be prepared.”</p>
<p>“We’re plenty prepared,” Crowley promised. His hand was beside Aziraphale’s on the trolley’s handle. “Why don’t we—” </p>
<p>“Have the two of you just moved to town?”</p>
<p>Aziraphale startled and spun around. Behind them was a shorter woman, spectacled and smiling. He put on a bright smile of his own. “The two of us?” </p>
<p>“You and your partner,” she clarified, and she was smiling at Crowley now, as if… as if…! “Or is it just a visit? Holiday?”</p>
<p>Aziraphale took a further step away, shaking his head. “No! Us? No! As a matter of fact,” he glanced at Crowley and found him giving him an odd look, “we’ve just… bumped into each other! And started chatting. No prior acquaintance at all.” He sent Crowley another glance for corroboration, but now he looked… what had given him the right to look so <i>hurt</i>?</p>
<p>The look was gone from Crowley’s face a moment later, a smile in its place. “He’s joking,” Crowley was saying, and then something more, something about… mortgages? Aziraphale was finding it terribly difficult to concentrate. There was something he was missing, something he’d gotten wrong. The shop was awfully warm. Why on Earth hadn’t they gotten separate trolleys? </p>
<p>“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, seemingly for the second time.</p>
<p>“Hmm? Oh, yes.” He took the woman’s outstretched hand. He so wished she would stop smiling like that. “A pleasure.”</p>
<p>She said something equally pleasant in return, and the whole thing seemed to be nearly over with. “You, too,” he said reflexively. In retrospect, what she’d said was more along the lines of, ‘Best of luck with the move.’ “The move,” he mouthed to himself. She was walking away, back in the direction of the dairy. Crowley had cycled back to that same odd look, although now it was bordering on concern. He looked like he was about to say something, but hadn’t settled on the wording yet.</p>
<p>“What was that you were saying about the, erm. The mortgage?” Aziraphale asked, to redirect.</p>
<p>“Oh! Yeah, the, er. The housing market. Made it a good time to buy a cottage.”</p>
<p>“Is that true?”</p>
<p>Crowley shrugged. “You’re the one who said we ought to be friendly with the neighbours.”</p>
<p>“The neighbours.” A cloud was lifting. “She’s going to be our neighbour. Of course.”</p>
<p>“Angel—”</p>
<p>“We ought to be heading home soon.” Aziraphale took back control of the trolley and began steering it purposefully toward the check-out area. Crowley followed beside him, quiet.</p>
<p>The queue was long enough that after a time, Crowley began flipping through the tabloids. He seemed to be respecting Aziraphale’s flustered silence as something to prod at once they were through with the shopping, or maybe—it was a longshot, yes, but maybe he hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary at all. Either way, Aziraphale decided to leave him to it, and drifted to examine the community bulletin board. It was always good practice to keep apprised of lost pet notices. One never knew when one might come across a stray animal.</p>
<p>He knew that sooner or later, he would have to say something. It would have to be sooner, more likely than later, if he didn’t want the entire thing to spiral out of hand. He glanced over furtively to see Crowley looking back, and gave him a reassuring little wave. Yes, he definitely needed to offer some sort of explanation.</p>
<p>But what to say? He began rehearsing lines in his head as he skimmed over the various announcements and notices. <i>I forgot, in the heat of the moment, that we were…</i>. He wasn’t certain what they were calling themselves, really. <i>It certainly won’t happen again, I can assure you of that.</i> But there was another unknown. He wasn’t certain, and any such assurances would be nothing but empty air. He was going about this all wrong. His hands, which had been moving with his thoughts, fell still, clasped together about his middle.</p>
<p>Aziraphale had always found there to be something pleasant about the concept of a community bulletin board. On this one in particular, guitar lessons were offered alongside an advisory about foxes, and a call for change in council president was posted just under the flier for the knitting group. It was a collection of people calling out and answering, of humans taking care of each other, and…oh, and the knitting circle donated clothing items to those in need! Another prime example of the strength of the community, he thought. </p>
<p>The queue was shifting forward, and he rejoined Crowley in order to help place their items on the belt. He lifted his eyebrows at the novelty mug that had somehow found its way into the trolley. “World’s Worst Employee,” he read aloud. </p>
<p>“Fitting, isn’t it?” Crowley smiled at him in a fair approximation of good humour.</p>
<p>“I don’t know where you find these things,” Aziraphale said, without managing to sound very put-upon.</p>
<p>“Anything interesting over there?”</p>
<p>Aziraphale considered the question. He considered the assurances he’d quite like to make. “Crowley,” he said slowly, “I believe I owe you an apology.”</p>
<p>“Nonsense—”</p>
<p>“No, I do. I think what I may need is practice.” He held up a finger to stop Crowley from interrupting again. “I think we ought to join the knitting group.” </p>
<p>“The what?”</p>
<p>“It was there on the board. They meet once a week.”</p>
<p>“Alright, yeah, I understand the concept. But the knitting group?”</p>
<p>“Oh, come now, dear, don’t dismiss it out of hand. We might make friends.”</p>
<p>“The knitting group,” Crowley repeated, more to himself this time. Aziraphale could tell that he’d come around to the idea soon enough. It was something in the set of his shoulders, and, more accurately, a history of being easily swayed. He only needed a little nudging in the right direction. Besides, back to the point—</p>
<p>“I’m pleased that we’re spending so much time together now. That we’re moving in together! It’s… momentous. But… well, clearly, I’m not quite certain how to—”</p>
<p>“Yeah, ” Crowley said, before he could get lost in his words, “how to admit to it without getting all panicky. Got it.” He seemed to study Aziraphale for a moment, then said, “It’s weird for me, too.” </p>
<p>“Oh?”</p>
<p>“Of course it is! Six thousand years, and we’ve had, what, two without a threat on our lives? Do you think I’m not still planning how to spin everything if we’re caught? It’s… yeah. It hasn’t all just, switched off.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed, and smiled in relief. “Oh, no, I’m not glad that you’re also having difficulties, but… we’re really in this together, aren’t we?”</p>
<p>Crowley smiled back. “Together,” he agreed. “So,” he raised an eyebrow overtop his sunglasses, “knitting?”</p>
<p>“It’s going to be good fun,” Aziraphale promised, and beamed with enough force that their cashier spontaneously forgot everything that had been bothering him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Crowley looked up at the bright windows before them. “Do you think we should have… dunno, brought something?”</p><p>“Not very demonic, worrying about bringing something for the house.” Aziraphale smiled at him. </p><p>Crowley wasn’t sure he would ever be used to it, the unbearably fond look that Aziraphale shot him whenever he said something the angel could interpret as ‘good’.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Here's the second chapter! I hope you're all enjoying it! </p><p>If we've accidentally said anything racist/sexist/ableist or otherwise ignorant, that came from a place of ignorance, not malice, so please drop a note so we can do better in the future. </p><p>Without any further ado, please enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley lurked behind Aziraphale as they walked through the darkened streets. The wind rustled the hedges to either side of them. Aziraphale stopped abruptly, peering at the paper and then at the house number in front of them. </p><p>“I believe this is it?” Aziraphale sounded dubious.</p><p>Crowley looked up at the bright windows before them. “Do you think we should have… dunno, brought something?”</p><p>“Not very demonic, worrying about bringing something for the house.” Aziraphale smiled at him. </p><p>Crowley wasn’t sure he would ever be used to it, the unbearably fond look that Aziraphale shot him whenever he said something the angel could interpret as ‘good’.</p><p>He had trouble mustering up the proper indignation. “I- You’re the one worried about getting along with the neighbours!” He wasn’t even sure what the proper indignation looked like, these days. </p><p>The hedges loomed into the street comfortably, curtaining each house from view until they were opposite the drive. </p><p>“Ah!” Crowley raised his hand and snapped his fingers, collecting that morning’s sacrifice from where he had left it beside the house. “I was wondering what to do with my plants that couldn’t cut it, now that I’m not in the flat.” He lifted the ivy to eye level. “I know that you’ll be very grateful for this second chance, now won’t you? You won’t be getting another spot of leaf rust anytime soon.”</p><p>“Hello?” There was someone standing in the door. Crowley straightened, saw Aziraphale do the same, and swayed forward. </p><p>“Hello, is this the community knitting group? We’ve just moved to the area and thought we ought to make an effort to meet the neighbours, you know?” He offered his best charming smile and turned to appreciate Aziraphale’s amusement. </p><p>“Oh,” the woman sounded flustered, “yes, that’s- that’s us.” She stepped back and pulled the door open wider. “Please come in, it will be so nice to have some new blood.” She sounded more sure of herself already. </p><p>Crowley waited for Aziraphale to take the lead and then followed close behind, still listening to the sounds of the street behind them. As he passed the door he held out the plant he was still holding in his hand. </p><p>“Here. We weren’t sure… It’s your home you’re inviting us into- didn’t have enough space for the bugger anyway- I mean…”</p><p>Her smile was warm. “Oh, thank you! I was just saying to the girls that I wanted to try my hand at some sort of simple houseplant. Beth was saying ivy - this is an ivy plant, right? - she was saying that ivy is a good beginner plant.” She led them around the corner and through a doorway into the middle of a gaggle of faces staring at them. It took Crowley a breath to settle them into five separate women. Their host patted Crowley on the shoulder. “I’ll be right back, I’m just going to fetch another chair. Please have a seat and make yourselves comfortable. Masha will look after you. Girls, we have newcomers!”</p><p>The room was modestly-sized and mostly taken up by the dining room table that the group was gathered around, but there were a pair of bookshelves opposite them. Crowley could practically feel Aziraphale itching to take a look. </p><p>The one closest stood and offered her hand. “Hello and welcome! I’m Roxanne, and this is Beth and Fatimah, and you’ve met Carol and here’s Masha and Sayaka.” Crowley let Aziraphale take her hand. </p><p>“Such a pleasure to meet you. I’m Aziraphale and this is Crowley. We’re new to the neighbourhood.” Instead of shaking it, Aziraphale bowed and kissed the proffered hand. The ladies cooed. </p><p>Crowley snorted. </p><p>Aziraphale turned to look at him and Crowley could see the nerves returning. “Isn’t that… how it’s done?”</p><p>Crowley smiled and side-stepped to pull out the chair with no knitting in front of it. “Not since, oh. It’s been at least a hundred years, angel.” He watched Aziraphale take in the teasing tone and relax.</p><p>“No need to pick on him for being a gentleman,” Roxanne scolded Crowley and flapped her yellow knitted panel at Crowley. Crowley continued to stand until Aziraphale took a seat. </p><p>He was about to hover away and pretend interest in the bookshelves until their host reappeared when he realized what they had forgotten. He clutched at the back of Aziraphale’s chair and scrambled for a topic to distract the rest of the table. </p><p>“Oh, are those- those are the muffins from the shop down the road, right? Aziraphale was trying to decide on a flavour last time we were there. What do you recommend?” </p><p>As he had expected, the request for their opinions was enough to distract them. They all turned to look at the muffins in question and Crowley studied their knitting… paraphernalia. It looked like all they needed were the needles and a bit of yarn to work with. He breathed and was carrying a black clutch, just the right size to fit a couple pairs of knitting needles. They seemed to come in all different colours, greens and reds and blue metallic ones that clicked as Beth knitted along. </p><p>Sayaka pulled their host’s knitting towards herself. “Here, Crowley, was it? Have a seat. Carol won’t want you to hover. She’ll take the chair she brings back. Knowing her, she’d insist even if you wait and fight her on it.”</p><p>Crowley flashed her a toothy smile and agreed, “Anthony J. Crowley. Surely, whatever chair she brings back is going to be short for the table. I’m much taller than she is.” He glared at the back of Aziraphale’s head. Sowing discord was demonic. He could feel the Angel laughing at him. </p><p>Feeling snippy, he opened the purse and handed Aziraphale a pair of knitting needles (it wasn’t that he approved of Aziraphale’s tartan situation, but the little buttons at the end were surely there to be customized, right?) and a ball of pale blue yarn that set off the Angel’s signature tan. For himself, he pulled out bright red needles and black yarn. </p><p>Fatimah was watching him. </p><p>“What?” He only remembered not to be snappish after he had said it, but she didn’t seem to be taking offense. </p><p>“I just- you can take off your sunglasses if you want?”</p><p>Crowley reached up and touched them. “Oh. Thank you, but… eye condition. Very light sensitive. Er.”</p><p>“Oh.” She glanced around. “We could turn off some of the lights. Beth and Masha need the light, but they’re at the other end of the table. If it’s too bright for you-”</p><p>“No need.” Crowley gave her a nod. “I’m fine in these. No need to blind the rest of you.” </p><p>Aziraphale was chatting away with Roxanne and Masha about the cottage. Crowley still felt edgy, but- he supposed they seemed... polite. Sayaka raised her eyebrows pointedly at the chair and Crowley collapsed into it with bad grace. She smiled at him. There was something about her smile that brought Anathema to mind, a certain poise and interest.</p><p>“Have the two of you been together long, then?” Sayaka nodded to where Aziraphale was now allowing Roxanne to demonstrate how to loop the yarn onto the needles. </p><p>Crowley glared at his own yarn to avoid answering before he remembered why they were here. </p><p>He cleared his throat. “I… We worked in the same industry. The living together is… newer.”</p><p>Aziraphale had been paying more attention to him than he thought. “The same industry?! My dear boy, we did not work-”</p><p>Crowley cut him off. “Of course we did. Isn’t your precious bookshop in the same industry as Amazon?” He concentrated on the quibbling. That was familiar. It could hold off the weight of the consequences that could- wouldn’t fall on them, not now, but that knowledge wasn’t enough to push back his dread to a reasonable distance. He breathed and tried to listen to Beth. </p><p>“You worked for Amazon?” She sounded like he had kicked her puppy. </p><p>Masha leaned in and stage-whispered, “Beth thinks that Amazon is the devil.”</p><p>Crowley dredged up a smile. “It certainly did feel like I was working for Hell.” He thrust his yarn and needles at Sayaka hopefully. “Do you think you could show me how to attach these to one another?</p><p>Sayaka smiled and pulled another needle and more yarn from the bag at her feet. “Sure thing, grandpa, let’s get you set up.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Stay tuned for the next chapter tomorrow night!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Aziraphale appreciated the texture of the yarn, the gentle rasp against his fingers, but this matter of looping it onto the needles really was rather fiddly. He retrieved his reading glasses from an inside pocket for moral support. “I haven’t done much fibre-work before,” he admitted. “Anyway, where was I. Ah, yes. The wallpaper. I thought it was lovely—rustic, you know—but Crowley likes things more modern, so we’ve repainted most of it. I see you’ve done the same here—if you did have wallpaper to start with, that is. I suppose not every house here comes that way.”</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aziraphale appreciated the texture of the yarn, the gentle rasp against his fingers, but this matter of looping it onto the needles really was rather fiddly. He retrieved his reading glasses from an inside pocket for moral support. “I haven’t done much fibre-work before,” he admitted. “Anyway, where was I. Ah, yes. The wallpaper. I thought it was lovely—rustic, you know—but Crowley likes things more modern, so we’ve repainted most of it. I see you’ve done the same here—if you did have wallpaper to start with, that is. I suppose not every house here comes that way.”</p>
<p>They had spent a few weekends in town before the big move, preparing things. Furniture had been the main concern, as the cottage hadn’t come with any. Aziraphale had thought it most inconvenient. The majority of the dwellings he’d occupied in his lifetime had been considerate enough to come pre-furnished. With the bookshop staying in place, nothing there could be repurposed, and they’d had to start from scratch. Or, more accurately, from Crowley’s collection. “You should see the way he keeps his flat! There’s barely anything to sit on.”</p>
<p>He stopped short at that, at the blatant assertion that he, himself, had witnessed Crowley’s living space. Besides, he wasn’t meant to be endlessly chattering on about himself! He hadn’t put earnest effort into getting to know a human being in… goodness, over a century. “Tell me about yourselves,” he said abruptly, and smiled to ease the transition. “And the group! How long have you been doing this, all together? Were you friends beforehand?”</p>
<p>Roxanne seemed more than happy to take back the reins. “It used to be just the three of them,” she explained, and gestured to Masha, Beth, and Carol. “But then I nosed my way in… a year ago, nearly, and dragged the other two along soon after. Why not try to grow a little, I said. Spice things up. It was my idea for the flyer.”</p>
<p>“It really is very welcoming of you,” Aziraphale said approvingly. “We all ought to try to be more neighbourly, I think.”</p>
<p>“And who was it owned the shop next to you?” Crowley asked, his lips curled in that particular way, only a small part mischief. </p>
<p>“Yes, alright,” Aziraphale said, waving a needle in his direction. “I did say, ‘try.’” </p>
<p>Back to the matter of the needles: he was supposed to be making a regular line of stitches, he was fairly sure, but—and maybe it had to do with how much he pulled them—his were ending up bunched together, crowding each other as if they didn’t have an entire needle to take up. He gave them an expectant look, and they spaced themselves out accordingly. He would have liked to have compared his progress to Crowley’s, but the clutter on the table was blocking his view.</p>
<p>“Where have you moved here from?” Masha asked, as Aziraphale was trying to make his fifth stitch look like the now perfect first four. </p>
<p>“London,” he answered distractedly, and let Crowley take over for a little while. He seemed to have their backstory all worked out, and lying fell much more within his purview—or ought to, anyway. His own part in the story was easy enough. His bookshop was something he knew how to talk about, and he filled in details where necessary.</p>
<p>He’d reached ten stitches when Crowley was pulled away into his own conversation again. The humans in Aziraphale’s proximity drifted into a conversation about a television program, some sort of competition, seemingly, and then, out of nowhere, when at least ten minutes must have passed and he thought he was safe, “How did the two of you meet?”</p>
<p>Roxanne was seemingly trying to draw him back into the conversation—was it a dating show?—which was kind of her, he told himself. He could feel Crowley listening, even while explaining something about a setting on his phone. He had backup, should he need it.</p>
<p>“We met in a garden,” Aziraphale said, smiling at the memory, still sharp despite the years. The knitting kept his hands busy, and the words came easily enough. “Crowley approached me, and… I was a bit distressed, you see. I wasn’t having a good day at all. I thought I might be fired! But he was such a comfort.” </p>
<p>“He really was awful at his job,” Crowley chimed in. “It’s why I fell for him.” </p>
<p>Aziraphale scowled. “I was perfectly adequate at my job.”</p>
<p>“Oh, adequate! I forgot how low the bar was.”</p>
<p>“Honestly, my dear…” But Crowley was smiling at him, and he could already feel himself warming to it. He was certain his resolve used to be stronger. “You’re one to talk,” he scolded, and scooted closer to peer at the small black stitches, stark against the red. He reassessed his own row quietly, studiously ignoring the looks he was sure were being directed at them.</p>
<p>Crowley was on to bragging about what a second-rate employee he’d been, and Aziraphale half listened while Masha showed him what to do after the first row. No need for it to be perfect first, she assured him. This first run was merely for practice. There was a gentleness to it that he wasn’t accustomed to, not when training in a new skill, but this wasn’t, “How to Wield a Flaming Sword Against the Enemy.” 'I’m helping to foster a sense of community,’ he could imagine himself saying when Gabriel noticed the yarn cluttering the back room. He couldn’t imagine he would be very impressed.</p>
<p>“Lot of books,” Crowley said casually to their host, and Aziraphale cast a grateful smile in his direction. “Do you read them? Avid reader, that is?”</p>
<p>“I would call myself more of a casual reader, but yes, I do read them,” Carol said with a trace of amusement. </p>
<p>“Do you have a favourite genre?” Aziraphale asked, able to pick up from there.</p>
<p>The second row of stitches came along slowly, bound obediently to the first. The women’s needles clicked in rhythm as they spoke; none of them needed to so much as look at them as they chatted away. Aziraphale paused when he weighed in and lost his place if he became too caught up in what he was saying, but, of course, it was all a matter of practice. There would be plenty of opportunity. It would be unrealistic to expect to match their pace at first attempt!</p>
<p>There seemingly wasn’t a set ending time, but as it grew darker, the conversation slowed. Beth was the first to stand, claiming an early morning. As she packed up her things, Crowley stood as well. “We probably ought to get going, too?” </p>
<p>“Oh, I don’t know,” Aziraphale began, then doubled back. Crowley wasn’t necessarily hurrying them out on his account. “Yes, I suppose so. Unpacking to do, and so forth.” He hesitated, disinclined to invite himself to the next meeting.</p>
<p>“It was wonderful to meet you both,” Carol said, standing to see all of them out. “It will be here again the Wednesday after next.”</p>
<p>“We’ll see you then!” Crowley said, and that was that. Aziraphale followed Crowley out the door, knitting bundled into Crowley’s nice little bag, and let out a breath. </p>
<p>“That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”</p>
<p>Crowley looked tired. It was the slope of his shoulders, tension gone from them. “Was alright,” he said with a noncommittal shrug.</p>
<p>Aziraphale stepped closer to slip his hand into Crowley’s empty one. “They’re a nice bunch.”</p>
<p>“You’re just happy you got to talk about your prophecy books. Nostradamus, and all that.”</p>
<p>“Well, maybe that’s part of it,” Aziraphale admitted. “But you were the one who brought it up.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Crowley ambled along the wall, half an ear on Aziraphale’s conversation with the proprietor. </p><p>“Oh, no, I’m an absolute beginner, but I think if I could just find the right book…”</p><p>Crowley smiled to himself and reached out to touch the gauzy yarn in front of him. It wouldn’t do for him, but perhaps Aziraphale… It was an almost perfect match for the delicate blue he preferred, and the yarn fuzzed out like it was wearing a tiny halo down its whole length. It was soft too. Crowley glanced around to make sure that Aziraphale was still keeping the proprietor busy over by the bookshelf and patted it again.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As always, if we've said anything racist/sexist/transphobic/ableist/etc, that comes from a place of ignorance, not malice, so please let us know so we can do better next time. </p><p>Without further ado, please enjoy this chapter and my apologies for the late posting time - I almost forgot it was my turn!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley ambled along the wall, half an ear on Aziraphale’s conversation with the proprietor. </p><p>“Oh, no, I’m an absolute beginner, but I think if I could just find the right book…”</p><p>Crowley smiled to himself and reached out to touch the gauzy yarn in front of him. It wouldn’t do for him, but perhaps Aziraphale… It was an almost perfect match for the delicate blue he preferred, and the yarn fuzzed out like it was wearing a tiny halo down its whole length. It was soft too. Crowley glanced around to make sure that Aziraphale was still keeping the proprietor busy over by the bookshelf and patted it again. </p><p>The women the other night had recommended that they start with scarves. (“Something simple, and with a chunkier yarn at first. It’s easier to see what you’re doing and to see your progress. You’ll know if you’ve got the knitting bug long before that first piece is done.”) Surely it wouldn’t hurt to pick up a couple of skeins of this yarn for later, when Aziraphale was better at knitting. It was… It was definitely demonic, because… because. Hang it, it was demonic because it was Crowley who wanted to do it, and he was a demon. </p><p>Crowley wandered further down the shelving. There were plenty of greens and blues and pinks. Some rainbows. Here was a whole basket on his other side of multi-coloured yarn in various pride colours. He patted the basket and continued. </p><p>Crowley stopped to look at the tan yarn. It looked soft enough to sleep on. It was only as he was turning to see if Aziraphale was done with the books that he spotted the black yarn. It was so dark, Crowley thought he could fall into it - at least if he stepped out of this corporation - and looked just as soft as the tan. Crowley reached out to touch it, carefully. </p><p>“That’s a nice yarn. It’s one hundred percent alpaca, and,” the proprietor lifted a skein and rubbed it against Crowley’s cheek before he realized what she was planning to do. “So soft, isn’t it?”</p><p>Crowley frowned at her. She beamed, mischief in her eyes. </p><p>Crowley shrugged. “It’s alright.” </p><p>She laughed. “And can I help you find anything, Mr…”</p><p>“Crowley,” he told her. “Just Crowley, and I think I’m fine, except-” he paused. “Actually, would you tell me how many skeins I would need of this to make a scarf? And then this one,” he produced a ball of the blue from earlier. “What would one make with this?”</p><p>“Lovely choices.” The proprietor beamed at him. “It depends on the size of the scarf you want, but here,” she turned and pointed at a deep blue scarf hanging in front of the counter. “That one used two and a half skeins of this yarn. As for the other one,” she tapped the blue. “It’s sport weight, so, you know. Actually, there’s a pretty shawl pattern for this on the internet. Catspaw, I think it’s called. Let me see if I can find it for you.” </p><p>She bustled off and Crowley turned to check on Aziraphale. The angel had finally finished with the bookshelf and was holding three books as he studied the yarn on the opposite wall. </p><p>“That one’s not very soft, angel.” Crowley reached the black yarn around to touch Aziraphale’s cheek. “Feel this one.” </p><p>Aziraphale sniffed. “Wool is traditional.”</p><p>“W- Well it’s- It’s not that traditional, is it? I mean, places where they have -” Crowley glanced at the label. “Kids? What- No, never mind, or alpacas or whatever all they make other- The world’s not all full of sheep and wool is only traditional where they are. Sheep.”</p><p>A snort announced the proprietor as she approached. “So I found a couple of patterns. They’re all fairly fiddly, I don’t know how you feel about that.” She lifted a deep red out of the shelf below the blue Crowley had retrieved and held it up beside the black. “Of course, you can also just use it with the black for your scarf. Oh, that blue would go nicely, wouldn’t it?”</p><p>Crowley started to reach for the red - proper demonic colour, red - and then paused. He did like the blue against the black. It looked nice. And as for Hastur and Beelzebub, he could hide the scarf away from- No. Hastur and Beelzebub’s opinions didn’t matter anymore, did they? </p><p>Crowley smiled at her. “You know, I think it would. How much of it do you think I need?” and he let her lead him away, chattering cheerfully. </p><p>She helped him to pick out the skeins, showing him the yardage on the tags and the dye lot numbers. When they were done, she gathered up all of his yarn and paused as she carried it behind the counter. </p><p>“Are you two paying together or separately?” </p><p>Crowley glanced over towards Aziraphale, who was alternating between studying in one of the books and studying the tags of the yarn he was holding. Wool. He pulled a face.</p><p>“I don’t know if I want to admit to that when he’s buying yarn like he’s making his own sackcloth and ashes.” Even wool wasn’t as bad as that, but as far as Crowley was concerned, he was allowed the exaggeration. </p><p>The proprietor took a moment to think about that before grinning. “In that case I can hold things behind the counter for you if you want to keep browsing.” </p><p>Crowley considered that. “Are there other things I should have? Bits and bobs and so on?” When Warlock was six, Harriet Dowling had taken a short jaunt into the world of quilting. Crowley could remember the mounds of fabrics and scissors and batting and strange plastic pieces with arcane measurements on them for cutting things. </p><p>The proprietor smiled at him. “Eye of newt and tongue of frog?”</p><p>Crowley pulled a face. “That was never my favourite of his.”</p><p>“Do you have needles at home? And are you planning to do something patterned? Or just knitting?” </p><p>Crowley let his mouth stall for him while he figured out the answer to that. “We- oh, I don’t- Ah- Well, that is to say… What sort of patterns are you talking about?” </p><p>She clattered at the keyboard for a few minutes and then turned her monitor for Crowley to see. “There are two basic stitches, see? A knit and a purl. And depending on where you put them…” She scrolled down. “They’re both fairly easy to pick up quickly. There are cables and increases and decreases too, but if you wanted to keep it simple at first...”</p><p>Crowley cleared his throat. “Do you have a recommendation? For a simple pattern that I could try. Something suitable for a scarf.”</p><p>“Hmm,” she scrolled for a moment. “Here we are.” She turned the monitor again and tapped at the picture on the screen. “It’s a rib pattern, but it’s off by one, see? It’s called a mistaken rib.” She pointed. “So you just have to knit two purl two and as long as you’ve cast on the right number of stitches,” her finger traced along the rib longways. “This one is always facing that way, then the next stripe alternates. The next one always comes this way, and so on.”</p><p>Crowley studied it. It wasn’t bad, really. “And when you say, “cast on the right number of stitches?”</p><p>She smiled. “Oh, it’s a complicated process. Divination and the phase of the moon. Or it’s just got to be a multiple of four plus one.”</p><p>“A multiple of five?” Tutoring Warlock had taught Crowley more than he really wanted to know about math.</p><p>She pulled a sheet of paper out of the printer and began scribbling directions. “Your partner has a book that explains purling, or you can look it up on YouTube. Here, so you see, it’s a simple knit two purl two that ends with a single knit each time, so you want enough room for the full…” She began making tick marks. “So five or nine or thirteen and so on.”</p><p>“Oh,” Crowley studied it. Sayaka would help him make sense of it, he felt sure.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you all for reading along!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Two days past the meeting, Crowley sat with his laptop at the kitchen table, watching a video. The volume was up, and on the screen, someone with bright blue hair was demonstrating a stitch—the one they’d learned the last time! The “knit” one, if Aziraphale recalled correctly, which had come along in the second row. Or was it called the first row? The first after the casting on bit. He watched over Crowley’s shoulder for a moment before returning to the batter he’d been mixing. Well. He could hardly let Crowley get ahead of him.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Armed with numerous books, wool yarn, and the advice of the knitting group, Aziraphale felt confident he would be an expert knitter in no time. Knitter, was that the term? Knitting-person? No matter, whatever the craft was rightly called, he would master it. With all that was on his side, he could surely whip together something decent looking in very little time at all, so there was no need to devote undo time to practice. No, not when there were so many other things to be done. The books he’d brought with him from London had been arranged on the shelves, but they had yet to feel just right. The kitchen needed to be broken in properly, with the appropriate lingering smells. The weather would only hold for a little while longer, and nothing could replace a perfect afternoon stroll.</p>
<p>Two days past the meeting, Crowley sat with his laptop at the kitchen table, watching a video. The volume was up, and on the screen, someone with bright blue hair was demonstrating a stitch—the one they’d learned the last time! The “knit” one, if Aziraphale recalled correctly, which had come along in the second row. Or was it called the first row? The first after the casting on bit. He watched over Crowley’s shoulder for a moment before returning to the batter he’d been mixing. Well. He could hardly let Crowley get ahead of him.</p>
<p>Crowley didn’t sleep every night, and Aziraphale didn’t linger downstairs every time he did. It took the coincidence of those two elements for Aziraphale to dive into his reading, five nights past the meeting, now. Once he had, once he devoted himself to any topic of study, it took over until he’d poured over the passages to his heart’s content, and he spent the whole of the next day in, references spread in front of him. There were small interruptions, the sort he was still growing accustomed to: cocoa set beside him, and not by miracle, music, which startled him with a blast of noise before Crowley plugged in a set of headphones, and, later, a demon half laying in his lap. </p>
<p>"Good book?" Crowley asked, from somewhere beneath it.</p>
<p>"It's informative," Aziraphale said curtly.</p>
<p>"Something in there about pearls?"</p>
<p>"Hmm?" Aziraphale folded the book partway closed to give Crowley a sceptical look.</p>
<p>"Never mind," Crowley mumbled, and turned onto his belly, legs hanging off the opposite end of the sofa and face pillowed against Aziraphale's thighs.</p>
<p>"Hmm." Aziraphale rested a hand on his back until it was time to turn the page again.</p>
<p>But there was still the matter of moving past the books and returning to the actual practice. When he retrieved the bit of knitting from before, still on the needles, it looked reasonable enough, but he needed to take it off and start again if he was going to make an attempt at creating something usable. With it off, he’d no longer have it as reference. The diagrams would have to do. It wasn't so much a step back as it was a… a renewal, one could say. </p>
<p>With only a few days before the group met again, there was no putting it off any longer. Imagine turning up with nothing to show for himself! He cleared his needles of the practice run, prepared a carefully measured portion of the new yarn, and set to work. Crowley was set on scarves, so a scarf it would be. Step one was casting on. With Crowley getting into something or other upstairs, he wouldn’t look on and judge. Not that Crowley would do anything of the sort; at the very least, he wouldn't do so in a malicious way. Really, Aziraphale wasn’t certain why he was being secretive about any of this knitting business, but—no, it wasn’t worth dwelling on. He put on a record to push aside such thoughts and hummed along, falling back into the rhythm he’d found before.</p>
<p>It was all about the proper atmosphere, he decided. Of course he hadn't been able to get started before, without Mozart in the background and the evening light slanting in just so.</p>
<p>Some time later, an hour or more, he presumed, Crowley flopped down beside him, stretched for the remote, and the television screen came to life. Aziraphale sighed. "Must you watch that program quite so loudly?" he asked, barely looking up from the mess in his lap. </p>
<p>The volume lowered, and Crowley leaned in closer, his attention drawn to the same disaster of yarn. </p>
<p>"Shoo!" Aziraphale shifted, angling away from him. </p>
<p>"This is what you've managed?" Crowley didn't budge an inch. "An' here I thought you were leagues ahead of me, with your…" he gestured for the word, "studying, and, and sneaking about! Knitting in the dead of night. But that's a bunch of knots!" Aziraphale imagined him practically aglow with triumph, but when he chanced a look, he found the warm glint of mischief, or affection, or whatever they were calling it these days.</p>
<p>"It's supposed to be knots!" Aziraphale protested. "That's what knitting is. It's the entire point of the thing."</p>
<p>"Suppose so," Crowley admitted, "but not those sorts of knots."</p>
<p>Aziraphale sighed and gave his project an indignant look, laying the blame for its lack of order squarely on its shoulders—or, well, knots. "It's a work in progress," he said in his own defence. "Are you, then, what was it. Leagues ahead."</p>
<p>"Well…" Crowley looked off toward the television and neglected to complete the thought.</p>
<p>“Crowley…" Aziraphale set his project aside and shifted to face him, "may I see what you’ve done?”</p>
<p>"Thing is," Crowley began, then seemed to wait for an excuse to produce itself. When one didn't, he made a reluctant noise, then, "yeah, alright, but, the point of the group, part of the point, I thought, was to learn there. With people." He unfolded himself and crossed the room, retrieving a bag he'd stashed out of sight. And he'd accused Aziraphale of being secretive! "So, I'm waiting on that before I screw the whole thing up."</p>
<p>Crowley dropped the entire bag in Aziraphale's lap, leaving it to him to examine the contents. "It really is a lovely colour," Aziraphale said as he drew the needles out, with the very beginnings of a scarf attached. He ran his fingers over Crowley's handiwork. "It looks just fine to me."</p>
<p>"Sure, that part's fine, but it's the next part, the… here." He produced a piece of paper from the bag: a pattern?</p>
<p>"Yes, I see," Aziraphale said quietly, and took the piece of paper from him. He peered at the diagram. "Yes, that does look more complicated."</p>
<p>"Yeah! So," Crowley took it back to stash away, "group."</p>
<p>Aziraphale watched as the knitting was secreted away again, too, and glanced at Crowley. He reached for his own project, considered, and glanced again. He was on his fourth attempt to take some further form of action when he saw Crowley draw his needles out, the question unasked. "What I think's happened," Crowley explained, "is that it's gotten lined up wrong. "Here, see on mine…"</p>
<p>With less yarn in formation, but the structure itself looking much more sound, Aziraphale took another look at Crowley's pattern. He could make sense of it now, he was sure; he'd made it past his own stumbling block, after all. "Do you know, there was something just like this in my book! Hold on." He'd left the books on the coffee table for easy access. "Yes, here." He turned to the appropriate page and walked Crowley through the explanation as if he'd done it a thousand times himself. </p>
<p>"Of course, if you'd still rather wait for the group…"</p>
<p>"Just to get started on it," Crowley explained. "But I appreciate this." He tilted his head toward the book. "Might have you explain it again, after, to, er, reinforce." </p>
<p>Aziraphale brightened. "I would be glad to," he assured Crowley. "These things can be difficult.”</p>
<p>“Lucky to have you, am I?”</p>
<p>“Very.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sayaka was watching him. Crowley offered a weak smile. “And then I…” He twisted his hand, trying to imitate the motion he had been watching on YouTube all week, and stuck the needle into the mess randomly, trying to pretend that he was concentrating. There were too many humans in the space to keep track of. Too many conversations, too much… Too much. </p><p>Aziraphale turned and laid a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. Later, Crowley would recognize the solidarity in the gesture and the concern. Right now, it just added to the crowded feeling. How was he supposed to keep watch and make sure that Heaven and Hell couldn’t see them... See them… <i>fraternizing</i>. It was too crowded, Crowley couldn’t see, and Aziraphale was <i>touching</i> him. </p><p>Crowley shook him off and backed away before he even heard the words Aziraphale had said. (“Are you alright, my dear boy?”) Backed up again, and only slowly realized that the lines across his back were Carol’s bookshelves. </p><p>Aziraphale let his outstretched hand drop.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As always, if we've said anything racist/sexist/transphobic/etc, it was an act of ignorance, not malice. Please let us know so we can do better next time. </p><p>Without further ado, here's the next chapter!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley definitely approved of Sayaka. She was kind, helpful, and just sadistic enough. She pulled the needle out, unravelled the yarn, and offered both to him across the table again. </p><p>Crowley nodded, concentrating hard. “So first I tie this first loop, right?” He glanced up for her nod. “And then these two strings…” he trailed off as he settled them between his fingers and thumb. </p><p>“Almost!” Sayaka reached over and flipped them for him, her hand brushing his. </p><p>Aziraphale’s chair was right up against his, and Roxanne was leaning over Aziraphale’s knitting, tutting over his stitches. Crowley's chair had been pulled up at the corner of the table. There were bookshelves along either wall behind him. He’d had to scoot sideways to get in.</p><p>Sayaka was watching him. Crowley offered a weak smile. “And then I…” He twisted his hand, trying to imitate the motion he had been watching on YouTube all week, and stuck the needle into the mess randomly, trying to pretend that he was concentrating. There were too many humans in the space to keep track of. Too many conversations, too much… Too much. </p><p>Aziraphale turned and laid a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. Later, Crowley would recognize the solidarity in the gesture and the concern. Right now, it just added to the crowded feeling. How was he supposed to keep watch and make sure that Heaven and Hell couldn’t see them... See them… <i>fraternizing</i>. It was too crowded, Crowley couldn’t see, and Aziraphale was <i>touching</i> him. </p><p>Crowley shook him off and backed away before he even heard the words Aziraphale had said. (“Are you alright, my dear boy?”) Backed up again, and only slowly realized that the lines across his back were Carol’s bookshelves. </p><p>Aziraphale let his outstretched hand drop.</p><p>Crowley tried to breathe. “You can’t touch me. People can see.” He was certain that there was something he was forgetting, but. He breathed again. People were moving, pushing chairs in and stepping back from the table. It didn’t make sense, they were trying to trick him somehow. It looked like they were making a way for him to get out.</p><p>“My dear boy, <i>please look at me</i>.” Aziraphale sounded worried. That was… bad. </p><p>Crowley’s eyes focused on his angel’s face. “Aziraphale.”</p><p>“Crowley,” Aziraphale held out a hand. “Come with me. Gabriel and the rest of them aren’t here.” </p><p>That was right, humans. Couldn’t say Beelzebub or Dagon or <i>Hastur</i>. Wouldn’t catch a human dead naming their child <i>Ligur</i>. It was lucky that Harriet Dowling had… Not- Oh. </p><p>Crowley blinked at the hand Aziraphale was holding as he led him towards the open space at the other end of the table. He felt a bit sheepish. (His stomach was still churning.) </p><p>Crowley swallowed before he tried to talk. “We’re safe, angel, aren’t we.” He let out a breath. </p><p>Fatimah gestured to her chair at the other end of the table. “You can sit down here if- if it would help.”</p><p>Sayaka’s voice wobbled, just a little. “Mr. Crowley, have a cookie. I’m pretty sure you need sugar after a- an adrenaline rush.”</p><p>Crowley took the offered cookie and nibbled on it. Roxanne, he saw, was unobtrusively keeping everyone back. Giving him room. He offered them all the best imitation of a smile he could find. It was too bright, he knew.</p><p>Aziraphale was speaking. “Thatcher-era. Queer folks were… not as warmly welcomed, and Crowley’s company had something against me in particular. It’s been a long road.”</p><p>The cookie wasn’t going to stay down if Crowley ate any more of it. </p><p>The homeowner - Carol, details were good, her name was Carol - had painted these walls a lovely pale blue. They almost matched the blue thread that was going to add colour to his scarf, if he could manage to do this long enough for someone to show him how to do the <i>bloody</i> casting on bit. Perhaps he was feeling a little bit impatient with himself. </p><p>He tuned into the conversation again in time to hear Aziraphale. “No, dear, your house is lovely. It’s nothing to do with that.”</p><p>Crowley could lay that to rest, anyway. “Was the- It just felt crowded, all the sudden. I used to keep track, all the time. Make sure I was paying attention in case someone- someone from my company could have been watching. They didn’t like me very much, you know? I just forgot, for a minute, that I didn’t have to keep track of everyone, and I couldn’t. It wasn’t anything any of <i>you</i> did.” He directed the last line at Sayaka, who was looking guilty.</p><p>Sayaka offered him a small smile. “Well then, perhaps we could meet up during the week and I can show you how to cast on? I have spare needles at home, so I can demonstrate as you do it and maybe that will feel less crowded?”</p><p>“Or maybe in five minutes, once Mr. Crowley has a minute to breathe,” Masha suggested, and Crowley felt his breathing hitch at the thought.</p><p>Aziraphale met his eye. “Ah, no, I think perhaps we had better be getting along home, hadn’t we Crowley?”</p><p>Crowley nodded, feeling drained. Sayaka had already disappeared his needles and yarn into his bag and Crowley felt certain as she handed it to him that when he got home and opened it he would find she’d managed to do it neatly. </p><p>“Thank you, Sayaka. That would be lovely. Should I give you my phone number?”</p><p>Number dialled into her phone, Crowley offered another wan smile at the assembled masses. “Thank you all for your concern. We’ll see you next week.” He hadn’t a doubt that there would be two empty chairs at the open end of the table for them the following week with plenty of space around them. </p><p>Aziraphale offered his arm as they walked out and Crowley allowed himself to cling. “M’sorry, angel. I don’t know what happened.” The hedges by the road rustled as they walked through them. Crowley couldn’t sense another angel or demon on the whole planet. He relaxed a little bit more.</p><p>“My dear boy, you have nothing to apologize for.” And now Aziraphale looked distressed. “Have you forgotten why we started this in the first place?”</p><p>For a moment, Crowley thought blankly of the long conversations they’d had about buying a cottage before moving. Then he remembered Aziraphale’s panic at the grocery store and nodded.</p><p>“Practice.” </p><p>“Practice,” Aziraphale agreed. “We’re bound to overstep ourselves a little bit sometimes.”</p><p>Crowley wanted to snarl at him, but that seemed like too much energy in the aftermath of his meltdown. “I suppose.”</p><p>They walked in silence back to the house. Crowley prowled around and through it once, unable to stop himself, and then settled on a chair in the kitchen where he could watch Aziraphale putter.</p><p>“Your corporation <i>could</i> use some sugars, my dear, if you think you would be up for it. Maybe potato or- oh! I have a very nice shepherd’s pie I picked up at the market today if you can’t do sweets right now.” </p><p>Crowley nodded slowly. “Maybe I- Shepherd’s pie is very heavy. Do we have any leftover- there was that lovely pasta we had the other night, the recipe from that Italian boy you knew in-”</p><p>“Oh, yes, of course.” Aziraphale bustled over to the refrigerator and Crowley wondered if some wine would help. That had sugars, didn’t it? Well, before the fermentation anyway. </p><p>“Do you remember that lovely little spot in France after the revolution?”</p><p>“We had crepes.” Aziraphale’s back was to Crowley as he lit the stove. There had been a lot of discussion about ‘frivolous miracles’ and ‘doing things the human way’ when they first moved in.</p><p>“After that, when we went up-country to wait out the revolution.” Crowley felt himself loosen even more. “There was the vineyard out back, and that fellow who wanted to teach me to make wine?”</p><p>“Oh.” Aziraphale paused. “The roofline was rather like this one, wasn’t it?”</p><p>Crowley stood and wandered over to hover close to Aziraphale. It seemed rather too undignified to request <i>cuddling</i>. He was a demon, after all.</p><p>“That was a lovely little place. I wonder how it is now.”</p><p>“Probably trampled in the second world war.” Crowley pulled a face. This was better. He was feeling more like himself already. “Did you ever watch him do the milking? He used to squirt milk right into the mouths of the barn cats.”</p><p>Aziraphale turned and laid a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley leaned into it. </p><p>“There was a little tabby thing who caught a rat nearly as big as she was one afternoon. She was a proper demon, that cat.”</p><p>Aziraphale pulled Crowley closer and let Crowley lean his head on the angel’s shoulder. “I’m sure she lived a very blessed life.” </p><p>Crowley laughed.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading! Stay tuned for the next chapter tomorrow!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Nothing extravagant, just. Go for a drive, have a picnic down by the water. It’s a warmer day, good sun, we won’t have to bundle up much…” He slowed, seemingly stalled by something in Aziraphale’s expression.</p>
<p>“Oh, no, I’m not saying no, it’s just that.” Aziraphale resituated his napkin on his lap. “I had thought… I had a mental image of the day, I suppose, but, no, that does sound nice, my dear.” He smiled brightly.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Right where I left you.”</p>
<p>Aziraphale looked up to find Crowley in front of him, all black silk. It must be morning. Funny; he’d hardly noticed the time pass. “Hello, dear,” he said, setting down needles and yarn and holding out a hand to be helped up. Crowley bowed and raised the hand to his lips instead, startling a laugh from him; the lines at the corners of his eyes creased. “Did you sleep well?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. Good sleep,” Crowley said, smiling broadly back. It was the lovely, open smile that had been cropping up more and more lately. “Did you have a good time awake?"</p>
<p>“Yes, thank you.”</p>
<p>“Eggs?”</p>
<p>“Pardon?” </p>
<p>“I thought I’d…” Crowley mimed what might have been the flip of a spatula, “cook something up. Breakfast. If you… I mean, not just for you, nah, I... fancied some eggs. Nothing altruistic about it, so.” He pointed over his shoulder toward the kitchen, then turned to follow the gesture.</p>
<p>Aziraphale watched after him, compelled to rest a hand over his heart for a moment until the fullness of it eased. With a soft sigh, he returned to his work, soon with the sizzle of butter on a hot pan as accompaniment. </p>
<p>Some ten minutes later, Crowley called him to the kitchen table, and he walked in to find tea made how he liked it. “You’re awfully chipper,” he remarked.</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t say chipper,” Crowley argued. “You’re the chipper one. Happy, maybe.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Aziraphale said in quiet wonder. He lingered in the feeling for a moment before adding, “It’s possible to be both.”</p>
<p>“‘Cept I’m not.”</p>
<p>“Yes you are! You’re cheerful.”</p>
<p>“You made it sound so… nggh, undignified! M’ still a demon, let’s not forget.” Crowley’s eggs received a pointed reminder. </p>
<p>“What was it then? A good dream?”</p>
<p>“It was more the waking up.” Crowley’s eyes met his momentarily, and they were the soft gold of the sun peaking over the brim of the world, the yoke of an egg ready to break open, spilling with warmth… no, not that orange, but here he was, thinking about his breakfast again. He took another bite. He did like to have his eggs soft-boiled just for the egg cup, sometimes, and the darling look of it on a plate.</p>
<p>“And…” Aziraphale held up a finger while he chewed, having deliberately mistimed the thing, then dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “Mm. What exactly do you plan to do with all this goodwill?”</p>
<p>“Goodwill?” Crowley spluttered, waving his fork in indignation. “That’s low, angel.” The smile couldn’t stay away for long, it seemed. “Mind you, I do have a plan.”</p>
<p>“What’s that?”</p>
<p>“Nothing extravagant, just. Go for a drive, have a picnic down by the water. It’s a warmer day, good sun, we won’t have to bundle up much…” He slowed, seemingly stalled by something in Aziraphale’s expression.</p>
<p>“Oh, no, I’m not saying no, it’s just that.” Aziraphale resituated his napkin on his lap. “I had thought… I had a mental image of the day, I suppose, but, no, that does sound nice, my dear.” He smiled brightly.</p>
<p>Crowley seemed sceptical for a moment, but kept course. “Later in the afternoon, maybe two?”</p>
<p>“Yes, alright.” Aziraphale chewed his toast, trying to ignore the odd twist in his stomach. It simply meant that he'd need to make full use of the time before and after, that was all.</p>
<p>Later, warm with wine and talk, wings spread behind him for balance, he felt another tug of his conscience. He'd dawdled long enough.</p>
<p>"Let's go home," he said, and earned a disapproving noise. Crowley's eyes were closed, wings sunk into the sand. He'd already given a treatise on the merits of it, on the sand he could be leaving on people's floors for weeks to come, on the sheen it gave his feathers.</p>
<p>"When're we next going to have sun like this? Months from now, that's when." Crowley yawned, and his wings twitched as he settled in deeper. "Didn't you bring a book?"</p>
<p>"I would like to go home." </p>
<p>He’d said it soberly enough for Crowley to crack his eyes open and squint from under his glasses. He pushed himself up on one elbow, and sand cascaded behind him. “Yeah, alright, angel,” he said after a moment. “I’ll just—”</p>
<p>But Aziraphale had already expended a miracle to pack their things up. He stood, wings tucked away, and stooped for the blanket he’d been sitting on.</p>
<p>“Let me.” Crowley, on his feet now, lifted the other end and folded it inward, hands brushing Aziraphale’s as he took the corners he’d been holding. With a soft intake of breath, Aziraphale pulled away and took a half step back. “Right, then,” Crowley muttered.</p>
<p>In the car, the silence felt thick, then the music too loud. Aziraphale checked his pocket watch, then turned it over in his hands, smoothing his thumb over the well-polished surface.</p>
<p>“Didn’t I give that to you?”</p>
<p>“Mmm.” Aziraphale opened it again to run his fingers instead across the inscription. “I resent the implication that I’m not naturally punctual.”</p>
<p>“I’ve waited hours for you to be ready before,” Crowley argued, and turned in his seat in the way that made Aziraphale very nervous about the road. His sunglasses were made impenetrable by the reflection off them, but his mouth was soft and turned down at the corners. “You alright?” he said, too carefully.</p>
<p>Aziraphale gave a stiff nod. “Yes, perfectly.”</p>
<p>“See, no, that’s not what I want, the I’m not really alright but I’m going to pretend I am thing,” a truck passed them, horn blaring, but Crowley paid it no mind, “I wanna know what’s wrong.”</p>
<p>“Nothing’s wrong,” Aziraphale said firmly. “Although something may well be soon, if you don’t watch where we’re going.” </p>
<p>Crowley rolled his eyes, which Aziraphale knew because he did it with his entire face. “Angel—”</p>
<p>“Watch the road,” Aziraphale insisted, and earned himself some peace.</p>
<p>Of course, peace was never lasting, at least in Aziraphale’s 6,000 years of experience. He settled in on the sofa with his knitting, his hands repeating what was now becoming a habitual motion. He was much slower than he'd like, still, but all the more reason to make up for it in time spent. Crowley clattered some dishes about, supposedly cleaning them the human way, did something else involving a whirring noise in the kitchen, then came in to flop across from him into an armchair and watch him knit away.</p>
<p>"I don't get it," he complained, blinking for seemingly the first time since he’d sat down. "Did you come back here just to do that? Or did something spook you there? Too much open space?"</p>
<p>"You're talking about me as if I'm a rabbit," Aziraphale sniffed. "No, as I said at breakfast, I had a certain mental image of my day."</p>
<p>"And that was knitting? Why didn't you bring it along?"</p>
<p>"I didn't think to!" Aziraphale complained. "Besides, we had gone there to eat."</p>
<p>"Fair enough." Crowley was quiet for a moment longer, then asked, "Is it like your books? It's your thing now, and you're enjoying it? Because, dunno, it seemed like—"</p>
<p>"Of course I'm enjoying it," Aziraphale said, too forcefully. "I am.” He liked the essence of it, the long tradition of it and, no less, the feel of working with the yarn. "But I've had to start over three times, now, and, at this rate. You can see how I ought to buckle down, now, and, and…"</p>
<p>"What's it matter?" Crowley asked with pure earnestness, and Aziraphale caught a glimpse of Gabriel in his bafflement. Why was he always going about this wrong! He'd mixed it up again, clearly, because he didn't have the instincts for it, because…</p>
<p>"I don't know," he said, his cheeks warm. "I thought… it's silly."</p>
<p>"Doubt that," Crowley said gently. "So you want to finish the scarf for something. Something with a deadline. A gift?"</p>
<p>"The donations." Aziraphale set the needles down to speak with his hands instead. He couldn't focus on both the correct stitch and the proper words at once. He wasn't skilled enough. "I would like to donate the scarf, but I have to finish it first, clearly."</p>
<p>"But there's not a time limit on that."</p>
<p>"I'm going to make tea," Aziraphale decided, and stood to leave the conversation.</p>
<p>"I'm not judging!" Crowley stood to follow, his shadow. "So you've made yourself a time limit. Alright. Fine!"</p>
<p>"But?" Aziraphale asked, back turned.</p>
<p>"But you haven't got to," Crowley finished.</p>
<p>"There are children on the streets. It's nearly winter!"</p>
<p>"And that's not on you.” </p>
<p>"If there's something I can do to help—"</p>
<p>"Yeah, sure, but not if it hurts you. Not if you're getting worked up over it."</p>
<p>"Because it's not worth that? It's not important enough?"</p>
<p>"No!" Crowley struggled between the start of several words, and came out with, "yeah, yes, 's important, a Good cause, but, angel." When had he gotten so close? His hand lay overtop Aziraphale's, and it was alright, this time, good, probably, or he'd have spilled the water he'd been pouring into the teapot. "You can take your time. Enjoy yourself."</p>
<p>Aziraphale leaned back against him, and there were arms around his waist, now.</p>
<p>“How many times have we had dinner while you’re on assignment? Since when are you a workaholic? That might be on me, actually, for them, I mean, ten hour workdays when they could be just as productive in five, although the inspiration wasn’t hard to come by…”</p>
<p>Crowley went on for quite a while, meandering into the subject of unions, swaying with him as he finished preparing their tea. By the time it had steeped, Aziraphale was ready to face him again. </p>
<p>“I worry,” he admitted quietly. “Yes, I know, we tended to cancel each other out, but I like to think I had some sort of impact, on occasion, and now…”</p>
<p>“And now you’re still having an impact. Corrupting a demon. Or, well, the opposite.”</p>
<p>“Loving you?”</p>
<p>Crowley turned his face away, mumbling something incoherent, and Aziraphale pulled him into his arms properly to spare him. “When you say it like that, it does sound rather like an assignment,” he remarked.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Crowley!”</p><p>Crowley paused in his knitting and glanced over. Aziraphale sounded annoyed… Now that he was thinking about it, that wasn’t the first time he’d heard his name. Aziraphale was hanging onto the grab strap with one hand while the other maintained a white-knuckled grip on the dashboard. Crowley checked his speedometer. Well within the legal limits, for a change. </p><p>“Angel?”</p><p>“Oh for,” Aziraphale let out a huff and, perplexingly, made a grab for Crowley’s knitting. “Crowley. <i>eyes</i> on the <i>road</i>.”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As always, anything racist/sexist/etc is accidental, not malicious. Please let us know so we can do better. </p><p>Happy reading!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Crowley!”</p><p>Crowley paused in his knitting and glanced over. Aziraphale sounded annoyed… Now that he was thinking about it, that wasn’t the first time he’d heard his name. Aziraphale was hanging onto the grab strap with one hand while the other maintained a white-knuckled grip on the dashboard. Crowley checked his speedometer. Well within the legal limits, for a change. </p><p>“Angel?”</p><p>“Oh for,” Aziraphale let out a huff and, perplexingly, made a grab for Crowley’s knitting. “Crowley. <i>eyes</i> on the <i>road</i>.”</p><p>“That?” Crowley smiled. “Angel. The car is driving itself. I’m perfectly capable of concentrating on this,” he flapped the eight careful lines of knitting hanging from his needle and then gestured expansively at the dash, “without endangering <i>this</i>. You know I wouldn’t risk the Bentley, Aziraphale.” </p><p>Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Crowley. The knitting <i>will still be there</i> when we get to London.”</p><p>Crowley shrugged a shoulder and hoped he was plausibly hiding his amusement. “And so will the car.” He dropped his eyes to his knitting again and frowned. The blue yarn had somehow ended up at the other end of the knitting from the black- oh, of course! He sighed and began unknitting slowly, loop by loop. </p><p>Sayaka had called it something else, during their casting-on lesson. Newt-ing, maybe, or toading…</p><p>“Frogging.” Aziraphale corrected him. He must have spoken aloud. “And you can just stick the needle through an earlier row. As long as you don’t miss any loops-” he let go of the dashboard and reached to point at Crowley’s knitting, his worries momentarily forgotten. </p><p>Momentarily, until, “Crowley!” </p><p>Crowley glanced up as a van pulled out in their lane. He could feel the Bentley slow even as he lifted his gaze. He turned to face Aziraphale again. </p><p>“See? It’s driving.” Crowley dropped his gaze. Something odd was happening to his knitting. Humans did this without miracles all the ti- Ah! He caught the missing loop just before it slipped through the loop below it and reached the point where he’d dropped the blue yarn. </p><p> </p><p>Sayaka had smiled at the colour choice as she demonstrated casting on yet again. “I think it’s lovely,” she told him and mimed tugging at a bowtie. “It’s clear that you two love each other so much. Is the scarf for you or him?” </p><p>Crowley had paused, taken with the concept, before shaking his head. “No, Aziraphale wants to do the donations and I thought I’d follow his lead.” </p><p>“You’re besotted,” she’d scolded, and then hovered a hand over his without quite touching. “Watch your- There! Look at you go!” </p><p>Crowley had redone the stitch so that it caught both strands of yarn. His hands <i>were</i> learning to cast on without his brain getting in the way. </p><p>Sayaka had helped him to troubleshoot a few other common knitting problems before taking her leave. </p><p>(Another one of his, troubleshooting. Well, Aziraphale had gotten a commendation for it too, maybe? He was nearly certain that he remembered claiming troubleshooting. It <i>seemed</i> demonic, the way you had to sit and watch your little doodad spin (what did they call it? It was an arrow-shape, but that wasn’t- Pointer? A pointer-rat?) and then it never came up with a workable solution anyway.) </p><p> </p><p>Crowley dangled the knitting in front of his face and scowled. That wasn’t right, he’d just knitted two stitches in a row that had been purled- There it was. He sighed and began backtracking again. </p><p>“Are you planning to knit the whole way to London?” Aziraphale sounded more perplexed than anything. </p><p>Crowley pulled a face at his knitting. (It couldn’t be called a scarf, not yet. Maybe if it were for a crow or a cat and he’d been knitting on the long side.) </p><p>“Crowley?”</p><p>Crowley sighed. “Well, you said yourself, angel, ‘s… ‘s <i>kids</i> on the street. And you’ve been working on your scarf all this time, but Sayaka took mine apart because I’d cast on wrong, and now…” He stared at the scarf. “And they deserve something someone put effort into for them, right? ‘S not like I can just- I mean, I <i>could</i> miracle up a whole set of scarves, but it’s not the same.” That admission seemed easier somehow, than admitting that he was enjoying the knitting itself.</p><p>Aziraphale’s face went gentle. “You know I’ve always said…”</p><p>Crowley huffed, but instead of insulting Crowley’s abilities as a demon Aziraphale shrieked again. </p><p>Crowley didn’t bother looking up from his knitting this time, and the Bentley avoided whichever imminent collision Aziraphale had been worried about. </p><p>Aziraphale sighed and loosened his grip on the grabstrap. “Crowley, my dear, I do wish you would just…”</p><p>“‘S fine, angel.” Crowley lifted his needle triumphantly. “And look at this! I’ve done another row!” There was something to be said for this handmade lark. (Aziraphale had taken credit for that one, though Crowley had received an honourable mention for similar elitist appropriations. It was nice though, to watch the scarf grow out of his own work. His own hands. Crowley tried to remember the last time he’d learned a new skill. Maybe driving. It was <i>satisfying</i>.) He traded the needle to his other hand and picked up the yarn again. </p><p>When he glanced to the side, Aziraphale had produced his knitting from somewhere and was organizing himself. Crowley ducked his head to hide his smile and applied himself to his own knitting again.</p><p> </p><p>Crowley dropped Aziraphale at the bookshop and headed off to pick up some pastries. The angel’s favourite baker was in London, and if Crowley didn’t stop off and pick something up Aziraphale would be lost in his books until long past the shop’s normal closing time. Pastries acquired, Crowley paused. He’d been planning to go back to the bookshop and bother Aziraphale, but it was a nice day, and the man at the counter had recognized Crowley and offered him a loaf of stale bread for the ducks. Crowley hadn’t known how to say no.</p><p>Smiling, Crowley took the pastries and his knitting and meandered towards the pond at St. James’ park. </p><p> </p><p>He’d barely finished feeding the ducks and settled with his knitting on the bench when he got distracted by voices. </p><p>“I’m going to ask.”</p><p>“Thalia, you can’t just walk up to a stranger and- it’s not <i>polite</i>.”</p><p>Crowley lifted his gaze to the huddle of teens in front of him. Two of them blushed and lowered their eyes. The third one stepped forward.</p><p>“Sorry to bother you, but my friends and I were wondering,” she paused and pointed, “how are you getting that effect on your knitting?”</p><p>Crowley blinked up at her. </p><p>One of her friends elbowed the other and hissed at her. “Thalia! I told you,”</p><p>Crowley shook the needles at her. “I’m new to this, so I’m not entirely sure I’ve got the intended effect yet, but here, you can see…” and he demonstrated the pattern for a row. </p><p>When he was done, the third friend reached a hand towards the knitted material. “What <i>yarn</i> are you using? It’s so pretty! Look, Sandra, see, there’s a light blue in there too.”</p><p>Crowley ducked his head. “‘S just two different yarns. Here, you lot knit?”</p><p>“We have a stitch and bitch,” the first one informed him. </p><p>“I see.” Crowley wasn’t sure what a stitch and bitch was, but it had sounded affirmative. “In that case, can you tell me how I can undo this here?”</p><p>The three of them bent their heads over his knitting and began disagreeing about the issue cheerfully.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Stay tuned for chapter nine, coming tomorrow to an AO3 near you!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He sunk into the text, his fingers guiding the needles along, and everything else stilled. The stirred dust settled back onto the books, obscuring titles best kept secret, the clocks on his desk kept their ticking to themselves, and everyone driving past obligingly decided that there was no need to honk their car's horn. </p>
<p>The bell above the door was the first to break the pact.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Hello,” Aziraphale said softly to the empty room. The door had jingled a greeting when he opened it, and it only seemed right to reply. It was still morning. Dust danced in the light that filtered in the front windows, and the smell of musty books acted as a balm to his soul. He flipped the sign to open, then wandered deeper into the stacks, taking a roundabout route to his desk. Along the way, he reached out to touch the spines of some of his favourites: a more personal greeting for those most treasured.</p>
<p>It was odd, leaving a home to come to one. The cottage was becoming a place of comfort, to be sure, but the shop was the truest home he’d ever had, and it was now a place to visit, not return to at the end of the day. He took a deliberate breath to ease the ache in his chest.</p>
<p>Well! Might as well get down to it. He had a limited amount of time and a folio of <i>The Tempest</i> that he’d been meaning to re-examine. He spread it open on his desk, set his reading glasses on his nose, and retrieved his knitting from his coat pocket.</p>
<p>A moment later, he set the knitting down again and gave it a puzzled look. After properly situating his glasses again, he leaned over the manuscript, mouthing lines aloud as he settled into it. He smoothed his fingers over the edge of the page, then the fabric of his trousers, straightened his waistcoat, and found himself reading the same line over again. His eyes flicked back to the knitting.</p>
<p>With a disapproving hum, he picked it up again, and his hands set to motion. He'd spoiled them for activity, clearly. They knew what they were doing now, for the most part, and he needed only look down at them when starting a row or when something felt off. It was feasible, knitting and reading.</p>
<p>He sunk into the text, his fingers guiding the needles along, and everything else stilled. The stirred dust settled back onto the books, obscuring titles best kept secret, the clocks on his desk kept their ticking to themselves, and everyone driving past obligingly decided that there was no need to honk their car's horn. </p>
<p>The bell above the door was the first to break the pact.</p>
<p>Aziraphale glanced up to find that a young person had entered and begun browsing the shelves. He glowered for a moment to send the right message, then picked up where he’d left off.</p>
<p>After a decent stretch of time, the bell sounded again, and this time there were <i>voices</i>. A young man led a toddler by the hand. Aziraphale kept his eyes on the pair of them, abandoning the text temporarily. The little one’s hands looked clean enough from a distance, but when they reached out to tug a book from the bottom shelf, Aziraphale made a pointed, “Harumph.” The child stared at him with wide eyes.</p>
<p>“Excuse me.” </p>
<p>Ah, yes, he’d lost track of the first customer. “How may I help you?” he asked politely.</p>
<p>The boy set a book on the desk in front of him. “I was wondering how much this one is?”</p>
<p>"Ah, yes, well." Aziraphale sized up the young fellow in a series of covert glances. "£50. Oh, bother." He'd dropped a stitch while distracted, but he'd noticed soon enough that it would be an easy remedy. By the time he had it straightened out, the customer had vanished.</p>
<p>The door jingled, announcing the toddler's joyous departure. It rang its displeasure at the entrance of an older woman, but she looked like the type to browse, not buy. Aziraphale started a new row and returned boldly to his reading. He recalled a debate he'd had with Crowley about how, exactly, to classify Prospero's form of magic, and smiled to himself.</p>
<p>"Excuse me." The young person stood before him again, the woman beside him, and in his outstretched hand was, presumably, £50. He had an expectant look on his face.</p>
<p>"I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding," Aziraphale said, smiling apologetically. "This book," he made a show of giving it a second look, "this one is particularly rare. I hadn't noticed before—do you see the embossing on the cover? Very few were made just like it.” His glower must be losing its touch.</p>
<p>“How much is it, then?” the youth asked, withdrawing his hand and glancing at the older woman anxiously. </p>
<p>“£200,” Aziraphale said, to be safe. “Have you noticed what a beautiful day it is outside?” He rounded the desk, skein of yarn tucked into his pocket, all the better for an amiable chat.  “It’s certainly been a mild autumn so far.” </p>
<p>The boy hadn’t yet given up, and picked up the book, clasping it with both hands. “You said £50,” he complained. “You can’t go back on something like that!”</p>
<p>“I was simply mistaken,” Aziraphale assured him, smile fading and needles clicking in irritation. He needn’t put up with such impertinence. He inched them closer to the door. “I’m terribly sorry that we won’t be able to do business today.” </p>
<p>The woman, presumably the boy’s mother, answered her child’s plaintive look with a small shake of her head. His grip on the book loosened.</p>
<p>The bell above the door rang, but Aziraphale only spared it a glance. “You’re welcome to leave it anywhere,” he told the boy, again the picture of grace in his triumph. “Do you know, I think they’re selling hot cider in the park. Wouldn’t that be the perfect complement to the day?”</p>
<p>“We’ll find you another present,” the woman promised, and took the book from the young fellow to set on the nearest shelf. “Cider does sound nice, doesn’t it?”</p>
<p>The boy gave a mumbled assent, and Aziraphale’s attention shifted to the demon leaning casually against the opposite shelf. He beamed without a thought.</p>
<p>“Neat little temptation.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Aziraphale said, pursing his lips. “It was simply a nudge in the right direction.” </p>
<p>“That so?” Crowley held up the paper bag in his hand and shook it. “Pastries.”</p>
<p>Aziraphale glanced between the bag and the passage he’d abandoned. “Give me ten more minutes,” he decided. “Would you make tea?”</p>
<p>“Sure thing,” Crowley said, but lingered a moment, watching him. His eyes were honey warm, his mouth crooked in thought. The light caught on his sharp edges, softening them. “Don’t know how you’re so good at it,” he said at last. </p>
<p>“Good at what?” Aziraphale asked patiently. </p>
<p>“That balance. Intimidating and, you know, the opposite.”</p>
<p>"Do you find me intimidating?" Aziraphale's eyebrows lifted. His fingers felt along the row, counting stitches. </p>
<p>"Nah, that's not what I'm saying."</p>
<p>"It certainly sounds like it." He tried his hardest to keep his amusement from his voice. "And what exactly is the opposite?"</p>
<p>"Forget it, angel."</p>
<p>Ah, he'd gone too stern. "It's alright to be intimidated," he said solemnly, eyes twinkling despite his efforts. "You stand before a most formidable adversary."</p>
<p>"Adorable adversary," Crowley corrected, swaying forward. "Tha'ss the opposite."</p>
<p>"Oh." Aziraphale's fingers kept pace as he basked in the compliment, working it into his scarf. He shifted his weight, nearly giddy, and glanced up to meet Crowley's gaze. "I suppose that's alright."</p>
<p>Crowley spent another moment looking on as Aziraphale resituated himself with the text.</p>
<p>It wasn't until he was alone again that Aziraphale noticed that there were a few humans milling about, presumably having entered while he was otherwise occupied. He hadn't noticed the sound of the door nor the weight of a single glance. Had Gabriel entered—he would have seen him unafraid, and perhaps that was as it should be.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It was so difficult to find proper demonic work around here. Just something to keep his hand in, nothing to turn anyone’s stomach but… Well, when it came right down to it, Crowley had spent six thousand years here with one purpose. </p><p>It was all well and good for Aziraphale. Aziraphale could continue to be angelic and good without his conscience complaining. Aziraphale had never gone in for the smiting or the more awful pieces of the angelic job description. Crowley didn’t <i>want</i> to thwart the good his angel was doing. His needles clacked comfortingly. </p><p>Even this- Crowley was without a doubt the saddest excuse for a demon anyone had ever seen. Even this knitting was intended, not to make someone’s life worse, but to help out kids. It wasn’t even about sticking it to those who hoarded the money so that these children had to do without - and really, was that even demonic? Those people were more evil than some demons Crowley had met (more evil and just as unimaginative. It was sad.) - no matter what sort of rationalization Crowley could offer others, he knew himself. Knew that this was about being (he shuddered at the thought, needles knocking against each other) <i>good</i>.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As always, anything racist/sexist/ableist/etc in this chapter is the result of ignorance, not malice. Please let us know so we can do better next time.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley shook the growing scarf out over his knees as he flipped the needle in his hand and began the next row. Aziraphale was out today, handing out benedictions to the children or something angelic. Helping hand out food. It wasn’t that Crowley minded - they were kids, they should have food to eat - it was just… He glared down at the knitting in his hands and flapped it out again irritably.</p><p> It was so difficult to find proper demonic work around here. Just something to keep his hand in, nothing to turn anyone’s stomach but… Well, when it came right down to it, Crowley had spent six thousand years here with one purpose. </p><p>It was all well and good for Aziraphale. Aziraphale could continue to be angelic and good without his conscience complaining. Aziraphale had never gone in for the smiting or the more awful pieces of the angelic job description. Crowley didn’t <i>want</i> to thwart the good his angel was doing. His needles clacked comfortingly. </p><p>Even this- Crowley was without a doubt the saddest excuse for a demon anyone had ever seen. Even this knitting was intended, not to make someone’s life worse, but to help out kids. It wasn’t even about sticking it to those who hoarded the money so that these children had to do without - and really, was that even demonic? Those people were more evil than some demons Crowley had met (more evil and just as unimaginative. It was sad.) - no matter what sort of rationalization Crowley could offer others, he knew himself. Knew that this was about being (he shuddered at the thought, needles knocking against each other) <i>good</i>.</p><p>Crowley came to the end of the row and flipped it again. The knitting had become more rote now, something to do with his hands without requiring his brain’s constant guidance. There was no reason why he couldn’t do a little brainstorming while he worked. Perhaps he could glue pennies to the sidewalk - that was always a lark - but lately Crowley felt that it took longer for someone to notice, and really, what did it matter? No one was going to Hell for a little frustration over a penny in the road.</p><p>No one should have to go to Hell. Not to be stuck there for all of eternity. Sure, they had all the better composers, but it wasn’t like anyone was sitting around playing all day. No, on the contrary, they were having as unpleasant a time of it as everyone else. Why, Crowley couldn’t think of a single thing that someone could offer him that would be enough to tempt him back- and that was the other thing. God had given these marvellous humans free choice, and then someone like Hastur came along and lied and bribed and promised people half-truths at best and dragged them down to Hell forever just because they’d been tempted without full information- just on the basis of them putting trust in a demon. It wasn’t <i>fair</i>, was what it was. Crowley had slithered up out of there as fast as he could, and it felt - well, he was a demon, he wasn’t supposed to be doing the right thing, but - Crowley didn’t want to be responsible for ushering people down the road to Hell, they could do that well enough on their own, couldn’t they?</p><p>The door swung open and closed and Crowley could hear Aziraphale humming as he hung his coat and took off his shoes.</p><p>Even Aziraphale had always known that Crowley was a sad excuse for a demon. Look at that neat bit of tempting Aziraphale had accomplished the other day in London. Not for the first time, Crowley thought that Aziraphale might have made a better demon than Crowley himself. Not that he’d ever wish this on Aziraphale. Not that Aziraphale deserved one ounce of the- </p><p>“Crowley?” </p><p>Belatedly, Crowley realized that he’d stopped knitting. That he’d been knitting in the dark. That he’d curled in on himself with the rush of anger at his wish - it <i>had</i> been approaching a wish, hadn’t it? - that Aziraphale could have been- But of course, Crowley reminded himself as he straightened, if his fall hadn’t been evidence enough that Crowley would be no better as an angel than he was as a demon, surely Aziraphale’s unhappiness was evidence that Crowley would have fared no better in Heaven than he had in Hell. </p><p>Crowley couldn’t wish Aziraphale a demon. The angel deserved only good things, and for all the sanctimoniousness of Heaven, it wasn’t like Hell was any more pleasant. </p><p>Crowley cleared his throat and snapped his fingers up at the lights. They turned on. </p><p>The look on Aziraphale’s face made Crowley almost regret it.</p><p>“My dear boy. Whatever is the matter?”</p><p>Crowley let out a long sigh, hoping that by the time he had emptied his corporation’s lungs he would have put his misery in enough order to be able to explain it. </p><p>It sort of worked. “‘S nothing, angel. ‘S just… Well, you’re still doing, doing,” he waved a hand. “Angelic deeds, right? Ssssstill helping the poor and blesssssing the good. And here I am,” he flapped the abandoned knitting, “sssssitting in the dark, not ssscheming or tempting or…” He sighed again. “And the worst of it is, ‘s not that I <i>want</i> to be out there ssssending ssssouls to Hell.” He stared down at his hands. “‘S silly, I know, to be unhappy that… ‘M not a good demon, you know?”</p><p>Aziraphale broke into motion from where Crowley’s words had frozen him. Crowley let the angel wrap an arm around his shoulder as he sat on the couch beside him. </p><p>“Oh, Crowley,” the angel sounded wretched. Crowley had done that to him. “Crowley, my dear boy.”</p><p>Crowley leaned guiltily into Aziraphale’s arm. </p><p>“Crowley, you’re a splendid demon. Really, a formidable adversary, you know?” Aziraphale paused and Crowley could feel him searching for the right words. “Beyond angels and demons, you’re just… Let’s see what we can do. Was it- and you don’t have to answer, not out loud, not if you don’t want to, but just think about it. Your job satisfaction, what was it that you enjoyed? Was it the job you were doing or just doing your job well? If that… does that make any sense?”</p><p>Crowley hesitated, considered the question. “‘S… I mean, sometimes it was about… ‘S not like Heaven has a monopoly on thingsss that- there were things I could be happy about doing, like… ‘S just that I’m having trouble… Tempting bigotry out in the open feels less like I’m ruining the bigot’s life by condemning them to an eternity in Hell and more like I’m condemning the people they’re speaking against to misery on Earth.”</p><p>Aziraphale nodded slowly. “So you could look for- You’ve always enjoyed the scheming, right? Couldn’t you tempt people to enjoy themselves? Or- I don’t know- scheming doesn’t have to be nefarious, you know. It’s not a…”</p><p>Crowley sat up a little straighter. “Scheming doesn’t have to be nefarious,” he agreed slowly. “And I don’t have to turn around and only work for good either, do I? I could just tempt people to, dunno, go stargazing or something, right?”</p><p>Aziraphale looked relieved when Crowley glanced at his face. “Precisely, my dear boy.” His gaze turned fond. “Perhaps I could tempt you to a little stargazing of our own?”</p><p>Crowley glanced at the window. It <i>had</i> gotten dark out, hadn’t it? </p><p>“Maybe down by the beach?”</p><p>“I can stretch my wings in the sand.” Crowley smiled at the thought. “I’m telling you angel, you should try it. ‘S invigorating, honestly.”</p><p>Aziraphale smiled back at him fondly.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Stay tuned tomorrow for the penultimate chapter!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Their guests would be arriving at 7:00. Hosting was a rotating duty, it turned out, and with the cottage properly settled into, it was only right they showed it off to someone. Or, that was the idea, anyway.</p>
<p>The timer buzzed. "Oh, hang on a moment," Aziraphale told it, and wiped his hands on his apron. The fabric was dotted in spectres, white against blue. Spooky month, Crowley had said when he’d gifted it to him. He opened the oven, tutted at the state of the gourds, and added another ten minutes.</p>
<p>He'd been chopping. Back to that. There would be people here, in their home, and they'd need to be fed, or they'd wander around and touch his books or comment on their photographs. Humans did like to snoop. There would be the knitting, too, of course, but it was best to have several avenues to keep them occupied.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Don't forget the ginger," Aziraphale said, scribbling it below "eggs" and "flour" on an impromptu list.</p>
<p>"Yeah, ginger. That's what I'm going to forget when you're making ginger snaps," Crowley said, communicating with a tip of his chin what he could have done with an eye roll if it weren’t for his glasses.</p>
<p>"Just hurry back, would you?" Aziraphale asked. He handed the list over and pressed a kiss to Crowley's cheek for his trouble. </p>
<p>Crowley turned a lovely shade of pink. "Won't be a minute," he promised. </p>
<p>Along with the ginger snaps, Aziraphale had plans for pumpkin bread and toffee. The toffee was to be Crowley's project. There was a sugar pumpkin baking in the oven at the moment, or he'd have gone along to the shop. The treats ought to be autumnal, he'd thought, and Crowley had agreed, although on the grounds that he was obligated to support the commercialization of the season. Never mind that he’d been flavouring his coffee with pumpkin spice in the privacy of his own home.</p>
<p>Their guests would be arriving at 7:00. Hosting was a rotating duty, it turned out, and with the cottage properly settled into, it was only right they showed it off to someone. Or, that was the idea, anyway.</p>
<p>The timer buzzed. "Oh, hang on a moment," Aziraphale told it, and wiped his hands on his apron. The fabric was dotted in spectres, white against blue. Spooky month, Crowley had said when he’d gifted it to him. He opened the oven, tutted at the state of the gourds, and added another ten minutes.</p>
<p>He'd been chopping. Back to that. There would be people here, in their home, and they'd need to be fed, or they'd wander around and touch his books or comment on their photographs. Humans did like to snoop. There would be the knitting, too, of course, but it was best to have several avenues to keep them occupied.</p>
<p>The timer buzzed again. It couldn’t have been ten minutes, but he opened the oven and was greeted by a wave of hot air. After a bit of prodding, he declared the pumpkin soft enough. It would cool, then be pureed.</p>
<p>He’d almost finished chopping the walnuts. The bread would be simple enough, and then he’d clear and make the cookies, but the oven times needed to be staggered. </p>
<p>Did they have enough photographs on the walls? Ought they to have more? Homes typically did have them: holiday photos and childhood photos, family photos, photos of birthdays and gatherings. Hardly any of those categories applied to them.</p>
<p>But there were the books, and the plants, and there would be the smell of autumn. There were other, smaller things. There were divots in the sofa where they sat together, and there was sand in the floorboards from their excursions to the beach.</p>
<p>The food processor whirred, reducing the pumpkin to a pulp. Aziraphale watched it spin.</p>
<p>“‘M back!” Crowley called, coming in with a clatter and a gust of air. His entrances were rarely quiet. Aziraphale used to think it brazen, but he found it a reassurance, now. A gentle entrance would be much more jarring; it was nice not to be caught unawares. </p>
<p>“Still don’t know why you couldn’t just get a jar of the stuff,” Crowley said, joining him to examine the pumpkin puree. “That is a good colour, though.”</p>
<p>“I’m only following the recipe,” Aziraphale said, and presented the cookbook for inspection.</p>
<p>“When was this thing written?” Crowley flipped to the front in search of a publication date. “Seventeen, eighteen hundred?”</p>
<p>“I don’t believe they had food processors in eighteen hundred, my dear.”</p>
<p>“Right, but does it say explicitly to use one?"</p>
<p>"It implies it," Aziraphale hedged, and huffed at Crowley’s smile. </p>
<p>Crowley unpacked the bag from the shop, and Aziraphale picked up each item in turn, making sure it met his standards. He didn't know one brand of cinnamon over another, but he did know what it ought to smell like. There was enough space on the counter for the two of them to work side by side, with the pumpkin taking up less of it, and Crowley began collecting his own ingredients to combine in a saucepan. He stirred counterclockwise to Aziraphale's clockwise, and he seemed to be allergic to measuring cups. </p>
<p>"Baking is a science, you know. It takes precision."</p>
<p>"Nah, it's an art." Crowley poured more sugar into the pan. "Culinary arts. It's a BA, isn't it?"</p>
<p>Aziraphale took the sugar bag from him to scoop a carefully levelled portion into his own mixing bowl.</p>
<p>"Do you think we have enough photographs?" he asked, when another moment had passed and the batter had come together. He only needed to pour it into the loaf pan, and into the oven it would go. </p>
<p>"What d'you mean? I have tons on my phone."</p>
<p>"No, not the ones of the ducks," Aziraphale said, waving aside the thought. "On our walls, I mean. Here."</p>
<p>"We've got artwork." Crowley paused in his stirring to frown at him. "Do we need photos?"</p>
<p>Aziraphale puzzled over the question. "It's our home," he said simply. </p>
<p>It would be something to add to the mounting pile of evidence that they commingled their existences, and not only as foes. They were allowed that, now. Evidence.</p>
<p>“Well, here. C’mere,” Crowley said, and pressed close to him. He had his mobile in his hand already. “Smile. Wait, nope, baking in the background.” With a guiding hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, he turned him around, then pressed into his side again.</p>
<p>“I hardly see how we’re going to get it developed—”</p>
<p>“Shh, lemme worry about that. Here, think about how you’re gonna feel when we get to eat all this stuff.”</p>
<p>“And we’ll need a frame.”</p>
<p>“Easy as pie. Easy as toffee! Easy as being friendly with the neighbours.”</p>
<p>Crowley had earned his smile, and captured it, too, as he showed off on the screen a second later. Aziraphale took the phone from him to examine it more closely. “We look rather sweet,” he said, his thumb brushing the image.</p>
<p>“Don’t know about that,” Crowley said, and took it back to give it an equally long look.</p>
<p>Still at close quarters, Aziraphale took his hand, eyes soft, on the verge of saying something unforgivably saccharine, when his gaze landed on the pan behind him. “Oh, my dear, your toffee!”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Well, you haven’t been stirring! It will have burned!”</p>
<p>“That’s ridiculous,” Crowley said, and turned to the stove. “Toffee doesn’t burn.” He gave the contents of the pan a cursory stir and tilted it toward Aziraphale as proof.</p>
<p>“Well.” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “I really do think—”</p>
<p>“‘Ve never burned anything in my life. In the kitchen. Any food.”</p>
<p>“Is that so?” Aziraphale fought a smile, trying to keep the upper ground. “I hadn’t realised I was living with a world class chef.”</p>
<p>“That you are.” Crowley looked much too pleased with himself, now, but Aziraphale couldn’t manage to hold it against him.</p>
<p>“You truly are a demon of many talents,” he sighed. Once he’d tucked the bread into the oven, he kept close to watch the candy form, thick and sweet.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The final chapter will be posted tomorrow! Thank you so much for reading along!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Crowley turned to lead the way into the living room and spoke a little louder, so that Aziraphale would hear him even before they arrived. “I’ve always said he was just enough of a bastard.”</p>
<p>Roxanne snorted. </p>
<p>Beth and Masha, already settled with Aziraphale and the pumpkin bread under the lamp light, looked like they weren’t sure if they were going to frown or laugh.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>One last chapter! Once again, anything we've done that's racist/sexist/ableist/etc. comes from a place of ignorance, not malice, so please let us know so we can do better in the future. </p>
<p>I (OrdinaryRealities) had Crowley use he/him pronouns in this chapter while in women's clothes. I go back and forth on pronouns for that, but the fact that God narrates Crowley-as-a-woman with he/him in the show generally convinces me by the time I go to publish a story. I am some sort of non-binary myself, but there are plenty of other non-binary people with perspectives that are not mine, so this is a trigger warning for those who are going to be bothered by it.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley twirled a little as he approached the door to enjoy the way that his skirt flowed around him. His earrings were more dangling than he usually went for, but Aziraphale had looked so pleased with them, and Crowley didn’t hate the way that they brushed at his neck when he moved. He swayed back as the door opened and smiled at Fatimah and Roxanne where they stood on the other side of the door. </p>
<p>Roxanne blinked. “I love those earrings. They look so… snake-like, somehow.”</p>
<p>“Have we been misgendering you? What are your pronouns?” Fatimah frowned.</p>
<p>It felt silly to think that Crowley had forgotten that they were going to have people over when he’d dressed up for them but… Crowley had forgotten that they were having <i>outsiders</i> over. He smiled at them.</p>
<p>“He/him is fine. ‘S habit for me too. And thank you. Aziraphale said he thought they were appropriate.” Crowley turned to lead the way into the living room and spoke a little louder, so that Aziraphale would hear him even before they arrived. “I’ve always said he was just enough of a bastard.”</p>
<p>Roxanne snorted. </p>
<p>Beth and Masha, already settled with Aziraphale and the pumpkin bread under the lamp light, looked like they weren’t sure if they were going to frown or laugh. (The noise of the toilet told him where Carol had got to before Crowley started worrying- they had <i>secrets</i> here in a way that Crowley had never allowed himself in his London flat.)</p>
<p>There was something about the living room in the soft light from the fire and the lamp. Crowley knew that in the light of day the walls were grey, but the warmth of the light (or perhaps it was a small miracle from Aziraphale - he hadn’t asked - to make the living room impossibly cosier) danced up the walls and turned the room autumnal. The sofa and chairs were gentle browns and oranges and had been covered with a variety of blankets from the bookshop that were invariably <i>just</i> off enough to clash horribly instead of matching. Looking at it with his most critical eye though Crowley couldn’t help but think it looked… <i>cosy</i>. </p>
<p>Crowley waved the girls in. “Please, sit down. We’ve got cookies and pumpkin bread and toffee and- Oh,” some half-forgotten ritual of the Dowlings’ made its way out of his mouth without permission. “Can I take your coats?” Aziraphale had somehow produced tiny plates for the snacks and… that looked like the good wine. It was surrounded by Aziraphale’s nice wine glasses, waiting for takers. All Aziraphale had ever admitted was that those wine glasses had been given to him by an admirer, but Crowley had suspicions that Swarovski had gifted them to Aziraphale himself. Something about the look on the Angel’s face whenever he said it. </p>
<p>Fatimah looked amused as she shrugged out of her voluminous sweater. “You two are so <i>fancy</i>.” She looked at Aziraphale. “It’s you, isn’t it. You’re the distinguished gay and he’s the disaster.”</p>
<p>“Fatimah,” Roxanne’s disapproval might have been overblown enough to be joking. “Anyway, the cottage <i>is</i> very dapper.” Now she sounded apologetic about something. </p>
<p>Crowley looked over to find Aziraphale already smiling at him fondly. </p>
<p>“Wossat, angel?”</p>
<p>Aziraphale’s smile deepened, settling into the lines around his eyes. “Well, you are a bit of a disaster, aren’t you?” </p>
<p>Crowley shook his head. “Of course I am, but what does that make you?” He only just avoided pointing out that it wasn’t <i>only</i> him who hadn’t dared buck the rules of Heaven and Hell for six thousand years while they pined after one another. As far as he could tell, it was the pining that constituted a disaster gay.</p>
<p>Crowley appealed to their assembled company. “He didn’t even make the first move!”</p>
<p>Aziraphale looked far too amused. “My dear boy,” Crowley had the sudden feeling that he’d made a misstep somehow. “Can we really claim that you made the first move when it was so clearly an accident that you flailed into?”</p>
<p>Masha cackled and elbowed Aziraphale. Instead of jumping at the unexpected touch, Aziraphale turned to include her in the joke. </p>
<p>Crowley sniffed and settled himself on a chair, crossing one leg over the other and picking up his knitting. </p>
<p>When Aziraphale went to let Sayaka in, Crowley barely noticed, deep into a discussion with Masha and Beth about <i>increases</i> and <i>decreases</i> on one side and the proper things to feed ducks (bread wasn’t good for them? Since when? Why, Crowley and Aziraphale had been feeding bread to ducks for <i>years</i> and he’d never seen any ill effects) on the other and his fingers deep in the rhythm of his knit knit purl purl pattern. </p>
<p>There was something soothing about it. The way that the looping yarn slid against his fingers and the contemplative slow clack of his knitting needles. Aziraphale reentered the room with Sayaka and instead of returning to his own chair walked over to perch on the arm of Crowley’s. </p>
<p>That was close - the back of Crowley’s arm brushed Aziraphale’s side with each stitch - and there was a moment when Crowley started to feel crowded, but he looked across the group where Sayaka had settled into Aziraphale’s favourite chair and was teasing Roxanne about how much the other woman had worked on her project since the last meeting and… Crowley could take a deep breath. There was room for it in his lungs. He could look around their assembled friends (and neither he nor Aziraphale had made a habit of making <i>friends</i> before, not like this, but that was undeniably what they were) as they laughed and teased, and Fatimah shook her needles at Aziraphale and said something that had him turning a bright red (but still smiling and happy) and the fire crackled in the fireplace. </p>
<p>Crowley leaned against Aziraphale’s side and picked up the thread of an earlier disagreement with Masha cheerfully. </p>
<p>Outside of the cottage, Crowley knew, there was a chipmunk investigating his flower beds who would have to be warned off in the morning. Two teens were necking in a car three houses down. Aside from them, the street sat silent in the dark. There were no other demons or angels anywhere else on the earth.</p>
<p>Aziraphale pressed his shoulder into Crowley’s back for a moment as he continued to watch Beth’s hands busy creating mittens. Crowley guessed he knew what they would be making next. The yarn in his hands looped comfortably around his fingers. His hands followed their pattern and left his brain free to listen to Masha’s impassioned defence of her aphid-infested garden.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you everyone for coming along for the ride! I think I speak for sophloph too when I say that we had a blast writing this, and I hope that you all had as much fun reading it! Thanks for coming along for the ride. </p>
<p>  <a href="https://sophloph.tumblr.com/post/630728147395051520/toading-by-writingordinaryrealities-and"> Announcement post (with art!) </a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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